


The Infinite Curse Of A Lonely Heart

by Potrix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Absent Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Cheating, Children, Consensual Infidelity, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Johnlock, Fix-It, Hurt, Hurting Sherlock, Infidelity, M/M, Mary is not a particularly good person, Mild Smut, Oblivious John, Parenthood, Parentlock, Paternal Lestrade, Pining, Protective Mycroft, Step-parents, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, post series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies." - Aristotle</em>
</p><p>Sherlock agrees to be the best man. John is his friend and that's what you do for your friend.</p><p>Sherlock prepares and delivers the best man speech for his friend. John is his best friend and that's what you do for your best friend.</p><p>Sherlock watches his best friend get married and smiles on. John is the person he loves and that's what you do for the person you love.</p><p>Sherlock kills the man threatening the person he loves. John is his world and that's what you do for you friend, your best friend, the person you love, the love of your life, your world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Infinite Curse Of A Lonely Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Infinite Curse Of A Lonely Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308631) by [maizi0522](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maizi0522/pseuds/maizi0522)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Infinite Curse Of A Lonely Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308637) by [maizi0522](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maizi0522/pseuds/maizi0522)
  * Inspired by [The Adventures of a Single Girl in London (Plus a Consulting Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165873) by [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68). 



> This story was about halfway done when I got stuck and nearly gave up on the whole thing. Then along came [earlgreytea68](http://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68) with [The Adventures of a Single Girl in London (Plus a Consulting Detective)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1165873) and gave me the motivation and inspiration I needed to finish this fic. If you haven't read anything of theirs you're obviously a moron and should go and do so. Like, right now. Seriously, off you pop. 
> 
> While there aren't many similarities between our two stories content wise, Sherlock's quiet pain and private hurting were what gave me the final push to stop being a lazy bitch and start writing again. Which, now that I read it, makes me sound like a terrible person. I am, though, so that's fine. 
> 
> Also, all of you should send letters of gratitude to [john_n_dean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/john_n_dean) for being the best beta I could ever have wished for. She's my voice of reason and the one who keeps me from slaughtering the English language... too much. It's not my native language, all right? I'm trying, guys. Mostly. A bit. 
> 
> Anyway, read and enjoy. And, you know, leave kudos or a review because those make me happy and all warm inside.

**The Infinite Curse Of A Lonely Heart**

* * *

Sherlock agrees to be the best man. John is his friend and that's what you do for your friend.

Sherlock prepares and delivers the best man speech for his friend. John is his best friend and that's what you do for your best friend.

Sherlock watches his best friend get married and smiles on. John is the person he loves and that's what you do for the person you love.

Sherlock kills the man threatening the person he loves. John is his world and that's what you do for you friend, your best friend, the person you love, the love of your life, your world.

***

John insists and Sherlock is terrible at saying no to John.

"You are her godfather, Sherlock. You will have to hold her during the christening, best practice now," John grins at him and carefully places the wriggling bundle in the crook of Sherlock's arm, manoeuvring his other hand up to support the tiny blonde head.

The soft, fluffy curls tickle the sensitive skin of his palm as Sherlock stares, mesmerised, at the small human being that is, biologically speaking, fifty percent John. Her hair is the same sandy colour and her eyes are the same deep blue. They might yet change, turn grey and fair like Mary's, but Sherlock will remember them the way they are now, an exact copy of John's.

"She likes you," Mary says softly from where she's sitting on the sofa, leaning against John with John's arm around her waist.

"I'm just happy neither of them is crying," John quips and nudges Sherlock with his foot, smiling happily at the sight of his friend holding his daughter.

Sherlock ignores the jibe and gently tips a finger against the baby's stubby nose. It wrinkles in reply and both John and Mary laugh delightedly.

"We've finally decided on a name," John says, sounding amused. He and Mary have been bickering about it ever since the wedding.

"Oh?" Sherlock asks, presenting the girl with his thumb. She tries to grab it with clumsy hands and finally, after several failed attempts, settles for holding on to his sleeve instead.

"Minna Louise," Mary nods and lovingly squeezes John's leg as he kisses her cheek.

"Louise after your mother, I presume?"

John gives an agreeing hum, but doesn't elaborate further. Sherlock frowns down at the baby, at Minna, his mind racing in a frantic search of any reference of the name. He finds none.

"It's a short version of Wilhelmina," John clarifies. He looks gleefully smug at having stumped Sherlock for once.

Sherlock blinks owlishly, first at John, then at Mary, and lastly down at Minna. "You named your daughter after me?"

"You saved me, Sherlock," John says by way of explanation. "From my demons, from my past. From myself, really."

"You saved _us_ ," Mary adds. "We wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for you."

Sherlock swallows the lump in his throat and puts on what he hopes is an adequately honoured expression.

***

"Are you sure it's fine?" John asks sceptically as he hands over the bag. "I know it's a bit last minute and all, but Rachel has a huge exam tomorrow and couldn't come over, so."

Sherlock sighs and graces him with one of his most elaborate eye-rolls. "Yes, I'm sure. It's fine," he says and slings the changing bag's strap over his shoulder.

Minna coos at them from the car seat in Sherlock's other hand. John steps forward and leans down to ghost a kiss over her forehead.

"You be good for your Uncle Sherlock, yeah? Mummy and Daddy will be back in just a bit, okay?"

"She is eleven weeks old, John. She has no idea what you're saying," Sherlock points out, but can't help the smile tugging at his lips at the sight of his soldier friend, who once shot a man through two windows, reduced to a first time parent cliché.

John pulls a face at him when he straightens back up, although he looks more fond than annoyed. "She's due for her bottle in about two hours. Everything you need is in the bag and you have mine and Mary's numbers. The number of the restaurant's in there as well, just in case. You can put her down after dinner, she'll probably sleep through most of the evening. Mary and I should be back before she wakes up and is hungry again, but if she starts crying and-"

"John," Sherlock interrupts him, holding up a hand to silence the other man. "It's fine. You told me everything I could possibly need to know over the phone earlier. Mrs Hudson's downstairs and if I have the slightest feeling that something might be wrong I won't hesitate to consult her or call you. Now go, you have a reservation."

John bites his lower lip, shifting his weight from one foot to the other a few times before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, all right. Thanks again for doing this, we haven't been out on a proper date since Mary's second trimester," he sighs and pats Sherlock's shoulder. His hand wanders and lingers against the exposed skin above the younger man's collar for a moment and Sherlock has to make a conscious effort to not lean into the touch.

"You're welcome," Sherlock says, hoping John won't notice the flatness of his tone. He usually doesn't. "We will be perfectly fine and the two of you deserve an evening off."

Minna blows a raspberry.

"Your daughter agrees," Sherlock grins and John quickly gives her two chubby cheeks a kiss each.

"Thanks," he says again, giving Sherlock's shoulder another squeeze before he finally turns to leave for the waiting cab.

Sherlock carries Minna inside, placing the car seat on the coffee table while he puts the formula away in the fridge and deposits the rest of her things in his bedroom, once again marvelling at how much stuff such a tiny person apparently needs.

"Your father has gone soft on me," he tsks as he unbuckles her and lifts her up, carefully cradling her against his chest.

"Ah!" says Minna and bobs up and down in his arms, drooling a little on his shirt.

"I can see you're spectacularly unimpressed by the effect you have on him. I imagine that's going to change drastically once you enter your teens," Sherlock muses, gently stroking a hand up and down her back.

He tilts his head, presses his nose into her fair curls and inhales deeply. She smells like talcum powder and organic bubble bath. Like the bit of milk spilled during the last feeding and the perfume Mary wore while saying goodbye to her.

Underneath that all, though, there is John. A trace of John left in her hair and on her clothes and now making its way over onto Sherlock.

It's all Sherlock's ever going to get from the man he loves and he takes it greedily.

***

At five months old, Mary takes Minna to spend the weekend in the country with some of her girlfriends.

John turns up at Baker Street barely an hour after they left, shopping bag with milk in one hand and a bottle of Sherlock's favourite wine in the other.

They order Chinese take out to eat in front of the telly. Sherlock argues with the contestants of the quiz show they're watching and John tells him off for being rude. John dumps his broccoli on Sherlock's plate and Sherlock scowls at him and steals the last piece of his duck in return.

The wine is exquisite and John's original bottle is soon followed by a second and a third they find stashed away in the kitchen. Remnants from their life _before_.

"I've missed this, you know," John says through a tipsy yawn, stretching his legs out on the sofa.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but lifts his leg so John can bury his chronically cold toes between it and the cushions.

He regards Sherlock for long minutes while Sherlock pretends to be interested in the programme. "You've grown quiet," John muses and rests his head against the back of the sofa, eyes trained on his friend.

"You have terrible circulation," Sherlock blurts and tries desperately not to fidget under John's scrutiny.

John laughs affectionately. "Yeah, I've really missed you," he murmurs and doesn't seem to notice the change of subject.

Sherlock places a hand on his calf and rubs slow circles over his ankle. He doesn't mention the slip-up.

***

When Minna is eight months old, John starts coming along on cases again.

He turns up one day, completely out of the blue, while Sherlock is mulling over some cipher, picks up one of the literally hundreds of papers fluttering about and flops down on the sofa to study it.

Sherlock stares at him open-mouthed until John looks up and arches an eyebrow at him. "It's a bit like one of our firsts, isn't it?" he smiles, waving the half-solved puzzle about. "I could do without being kidnapped by Chinese gangsters, though."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees dumbly and John just keeps smiling as he goes back to the page in his hands.

Sherlock doesn't ask why he's here. John doesn't offer greetings from Mary.

No one gets abducted, but it's a close call.

They stumble into the house at half past four in the morning, out of breath and unable to hold in the adrenaline-fuelled giggles as the lean against the tacky wallpaper. Like they did so many times before.

Sherlock has a split lip and a swollen eye and John is sporting a dark purple bruise on the left side of his jaw. Neither of them cares, both too busy trying to even out their breathing and not wake up Mrs Hudson.

"This... this was... completely ridiculous," John pants between small bursts of laughter, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed.

 _'Says the man who invaded Afghanistan,'_ thinks Sherlock, chest heaving and lips curled upwards.

"Thank you," John says and turns, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's arm with happy little hum. "I needed that."

"You're welcome," Sherlock replies hesitantly, then stiffens when John presses a quick kiss to his shoulder before straightening up and walking up to the flat.

He stays there, against the wall, watching John's retreating back while his brain does its best to render him completely dysfunctional. Slowly, he brings up his hand to cover the spot where John's lips have been only moments earlier.

"Sherlock?" John's head pops back out of the door and peeks down the stairs. Whatever the expression on Sherlock's face, it must be unexpected, because John's eyes wrinkle endearingly and go soft. "You coming?"

"Yes," Sherlock manages and prides himself on how steady and normal his voice sounds, completely contradictory to how he feels.

And so it begins all over again. Between working and family life, John once again chases after Sherlock through London's criminal underworld.

He never talks about Mary during those times and Sherlock never brings her up either.

***

"You're in luck!" the receptionist exclaims after a moment of typing, looking back up at them from her computer. "We do have one room left."

John sighs a breath of relief. "We'll take it."

Her eyes flicker from him to Sherlock and back again. "It's a double bed, will that be a prob-"

"No, we'll take it," John repeats with a tired smile. After being awake for nearly sixty hours and tracking down a murder suspect in a medieval sewer system, John couldn't care less about their accommodations. If there's a shower and a bed, he's happy.

Sherlock fidgets with his scarf but doesn't say anything. He can think of at least a dozen reasons why he does absolutely _not_ want to share a bed with his friend. People usually believe Sherlock to be reckless and irresponsible, but if he can at all help it, he doesn't actively put himself in situations that make him uncomfortable.

"All right, then," the receptionist beams with the put-upon friendliness everyone in the service industry seems to have perfected. She hands over the key with a much too bright smile. "Your room is on the second floor, number 215. Breakfast is from six to nine and room service is available 24/7. Enjoy your stay."

John thanks her and Sherlock tries to keep his face impassive.

He sits at the small desk, scrolling through his phone while John takes a shower. Sherlock takes his time with his own evening routine, stalling and knowing it's pointless. Eventually he has to leave the bathroom and is glad to find John already asleep, snoring softly into one of the pillows.

 _'Yes, I can work with that,'_ Sherlock thinks as he slides into bed as far away from the older man as possible and tugs the covers up to his chin.

Something wakes him up in the middle of the night. Sherlock blinks open his eyes and realises it's John, now attached to his side with an arm thrown over his chest and a leg tangled with his own. He's puffing hot, humid breaths against Sherlock's neck, lips hovering mere millimetres above the detective's skin.

It's simultaneously the most content and the most miserable Sherlock has felt in a long time.

***

Sherlock can feel Lestrade's eyes on his back the whole time he's crouching over the body. He knows it's coming, but he still groans and presses his eyes shut in annoyance when the older man catches his elbow and steers him into a quiet corner.

"You okay?" Lestrade asks, his voice laced with worry. "You're... I don't know, you're just different lately."

Sherlock glares and remains stubbornly silent.

"Look," Lestrade sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "Just... is everything okay with you and John?"

That's unexpected. Sherlock frowns at him. He has been so careful not to give anything away. "Yes, fine."

"You sure?" Lestrade presses on and narrows his eyes at Sherlock, watching him critically.

"Yes, I'm sure," Sherlock snaps impatiently, planting his hands on his hips. "Why wouldn't things be okay?"

Lestrade shrugs. "You tell me."

Sherlock stares, taken strangely off guard, then turns abruptly and stalks away.

***

Mary is cheating. All the signs are there, from the poor state of her wedding ring to the change in her daily routine and even the lack of general contact with both John and Minna.

Sherlock has known for nearly a month. And while he doesn't usually censor himself or care for the emotional wellbeing of other people, he hesitates.

While it is true that seeing John upset ranks on the very top of the list of things Sherlock distastes, there is also a more selfish reason for his hesitance; potential resentment. Being the one to inform John of his wife's infidelity could lead to misplaced anger and misdirected blame.

On the other hand, exposing Mary's extramarital activities might drive a wedge between herself and John, which Sherlock guiltily finds favourable. This knowledge would definitely hurt John, however, which is the exact opposite of what Sherlock wants to achieve.

In the end, he tells. He can't say why, it wasn't planned or even decided on, coming out of nowhere during a conversation about a family trip.

John falls quiet and lowers his eyes, coughing awkwardly. He already knew.

Sherlock's heart aches.

***

"The party ended an hour ago, you know," John greets him, but it's delivered in his usual half exasperated, half fond tone of voice.

"I'm aware," Sherlock sniffs as he brushed past into the sitting room. "Which is why I'm here now."

He shudders at the thought of a dozen babies and toddlers wobbling about on unsteady legs, pulling at curtains and tablecloths, spilling things and smearing their little round faces with cake.

John rolls his eyes at him and waves in the general direction of the playpen before vanishing into the kitchen to flick on the kettle.

"Sho! Sho!" Minna exclaims excitedly when she spots her father's friend. She pulls herself up by the bars of her pen and begins to babble at him.

Sherlock can't help the smile that's taking over his face. "Good evening, Miss Watson," he says and picks the girl up, holding her over his head for a moment to make her giggle.

Minna squeals and kicks her legs. "Sho!" she repeats proudly and proceeds to stick her finger into his ear.

Sherlock is a bit of a mouthful, he has to give her that. He is immensely pleased that he's one of her first words, though. _Sho_ came right after _dada_ , _up_ and _no_. Her vocabulary still lacks any form of word for mother.

Checking that John is still busy making tea, Sherlock leans down to whisper in her ear. "Happy birthday, darling girl," he breathes, followed by a feather-light kiss to her temple. If he takes longer than strictly necessary in order to bury his nose in her curls for a moment, no one needs to know.

He is completely taken aback when Minna returns the gesture and places a kiss on his cheek. Or rather smashes their faces together in what he suspects is her one-year-old version of a kiss.

"Good girl," John laughs from the doorway as he carries over two cups for them.

Sherlock settles down on the sofa with the girl in his lap, her back against his chest. He fishes her present out from one of his armada of coat pockets and together they manage to tear away the paper and effectively spread the shreds all over the room.

"Thanks for that," John mutters as he eyes the chaos, but his attention is soon drawn to his daughter's hands and the book she's waving at him. "What's this, then?" he asks, coming to kneel in front of the two.

One of his hands finds its way to Sherlock's leg and squeezes. Sherlock can't do anything but stare at it until John's surprised "Oh!" snaps him out of it.

"Did you make this yourself?" the older man asks, astonished and wide-eyed.

Sherlock nods in confirmation. "I made sure to leave out the _gory details_ and keep it _age appropriate_."

John shakes his head, seemingly unable to speak.

"Did I... is it not okay?" Sherlock asks shyly and bites his lip. He knew he would be rubbish at this whole gift-giving thing. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't... I wasn't sure what to-"

"Okay?" John says hoarsely, a dry laugh escaping his lips. He licks them and Sherlock's gaze automatically follows the movement. "It's bloody perfect, you ridiculous man."

"It is?" Sherlock frowns sceptically.

"Yeah, 'course it is," John sniffs, discretely wiping at his eyes. "Didn't know you could draw."

"You saw the skull."

" _You_ painted that?" John gapes at him and Sherlock blushes. "Every time I think I finally have you figured out," he laughs as he flips through the pages.

It's all there. Their adventures, the boffin and the bachelor, illustrated in colourful pictures and accentuated with the odd phrase or sentence in Sherlock's unmistakable hand.

Relief washes through Sherlock as he watches John, who's clearly touched by the gesture, run his finger along the outline of the dark ink of 221B's door.

"Dada," Minna says, patting the pages with one of her still slightly uncoordinated hands. It's an unmistakable and impatient demand that makes John chuckle and lean forward to kiss her nose.

"Maybe Uncle Sherlock will read it to you?" he suggest, shooting a brilliant and slightly watery smile up at his friend.

"Sho!" she agrees and cranes her neck to look up at the man in question.

"Of course," Sherlock agrees seriously before cracking a grin down at John. He shifts the girl and goes back to the first page.

John gets up and heads for the kitchen again. His hand brushes against Sherlock's neck as he goes and his thumb strokes, just once, below the detective's ear.

***

The first time it happens, John arrives at Baker Street in the middle of the night.

Sherlock, curiously asleep for once, wakes and bolts upright at the first creek of the stairs. The wood is old, making noise is not preventable. The person walking up to the flat knows the stairs, though, avoids the third and the eight steps which moan terribly if trodden upon. The nightly visitor's gait is somewhat familiar, but there is a slight difference. Additional weight, perhaps?

A soft murmur confirms that theory. It's John. John carrying Minna and talking quietly, soothingly.

Sherlock is at the door and has it open before they reach the landing, arms outstretched to take the sleepy girl from his friend.

"Thanks," John sighs as he hands her over, pulling a suitcase in after them.

There are no deduction skills necessary to figure out what's going on, the clues are practically shouting at Sherlock. John's wedding band has been removed, his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen and his hair is a dishevelled mess from repeatedly running agitated fingers through it.

"You can have my bed," Sherlock offers and John nods tiredly. The upstairs bedroom has been bare and empty ever since John left.

Sherlock settles Minna in the middle of the mattress, arranging pillows and blankets around her to prevent her from rolling off in her sleep before he leaves father and daughter, heading to the kitchen to be English and make tea.

John joins him on the sofa a little while later, making an appreciative noise when Sherlock hands over the steaming cup.

"We're taking a break," John says after he's halfway through his tea. He looks haggard and exhausted and Sherlock feels a tiny bit bad for not actually feeling bad about the whole thing.

"I'm sorry," he says, figuring it's custom to do so.

John's answering laugh is dry and weak. "No, you're not."

Sherlock doesn't protest that.

"It was a long way coming, I guess," John groans and tips his head back, closing his eyes. "She's willing to work on it, though. Said she loves us. That she doesn't want to give up on us just yet. Don't know what to believe anymore, to be honest."

"What do _you_ want?" Sherlock asks quietly. He shifts so his body is facing John.

"I haven't got the faintest," the doctor shrugs and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

They sit in silence, listening to the crackling of the fire and the low murmur of the traffic outside. It's tempting to reach out and touch. It would even be warranted in this particular situation, Sherlock thinks, to offer physical comfort.

"I'm going to start looking for a hotel first thing in the morning," John says eventually and opens his eyes to offer Sherlock a brief smile. "We'll be out of your hair in no time."

Sherlock is quick to shake his head. "Don't be absurd, John. You're welcome to stay as long as you need." After a moment of consideration he adds, "This will always be your home, too."

John leans over and kisses him and Sherlock's brain goes offline.

It's not gentle or slow like it usually is with a new lover. There is no exploring or teasing, just lust and need.

Sherlock gladly hands over the reins, lets John tear at his clothes and bite at his lips until they both taste copper. He arches back into the hand pushing his head down into the cushions, angles his hips against the angry thrusts and moans when he can feel John pulse inside him, the sensation enough to send him crashing into his own climax.

And he knows what he has to do the moment John withdraws with a hiss and goes absolutely still behind him.

"It's fine," Sherlock assures, surprised how genuine he manages to make his voice sound. He heaves himself up and refastens his pyjama trousers before turning to look at John, who's wearing an expression of utter disbelief on his face. "It's fine. We don't have to talk about it. _Ever_."

John nods absently. Then he jumps up and vanishes in Sherlock's room, closing and locking the door behind himself.

Sherlock curls up in his chair and cries until his throat hurts and his eyes itch.

***

They don't talk about it.

Mary calls every single day.

After three weeks, John takes Minna and goes home.

To his _real_ home.

***

"Come on, John! We're losing him!" Sherlock shouts over his shoulder, dashing after the cashier-turned-jewel-thief the Met's been after for weeks now.

"Not everyone's got endless legs, you know," John yells back and rolls his eyes when it's clear his friend's not listening anymore.

Ten minutes later their culprit is face down with one consulting detective firmly positioned on his back and a retired Army doctor panting next to them.

"I'm too old for this," John groans, but he sounds stupendously pleased with how their afternoon activity turned out.

Sherlock grins up at him. "Nonsense," he insists and rams his elbow between the cursing man's shoulders when he tries to wriggle free.

Lestrade is less than thrilled with the rough treatment and makes as much clear upon his arrival.

John shrugs innocently, offering Sherlock a hand to pull him up and let the police deal with the rest. Their hands touch and suddenly Sherlock realises it's the first real contact they've had since... _since_. He swallows hard and, after what seems like an eternity, finds the courage to look at John's face. The obvious want written all over the older man's features almost makes him reel back.

"Well, we're off," Lestrade announces, oblivious to the sudden tension between the two men still locked in an awkward handshake. "Come down for statements first thing tomorrow, no excuses. You know the drill."

The moment the last officer has cleared the scene, John tugs at their joined hands and crashes their mouths together.

"John," says Sherlock and melts against his friend, into the arms John is wrapping around him.

Any second now, John is going to realise what he's doing and come to his senses, Sherlock knows. He'll pull away and apologise and leave.

When it happens, Sherlock is ready, he knows his role in this.

"Adrenaline," he says to John's wide, shocked eyes. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

John clears his throat and shuffles his feet, rubs a hand over his face. "Yes. Yeah, okay," he nods and turns around without so much as a goodbye.

Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath and leans back against the alley wall. He shuts his eyes and clenches his trembling hands into fists. He is not going to go to pieces in public. He's not-

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Lestrade is furious, the corners of his mouth turned downward in disapproval as he glares at Sherlock from the other side of the alley.

All he gets from Sherlock is frantic, owlish blinking.

"They've just patched things up," the Inspector snaps, stalking closer. "Don't do this to John, Sherlock. Don't put him in a position where-"

Sherlock explodes. "You have, as usual, absolutely no idea what you're talking about! Don't you dare lecture me on what _I_ am doing to John when all I've ever tried to do is make him happy and give him everything he wants even if what he wants isn't m-"

He catches himself and stops, pursing his lips.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says and takes another step closer. Sherlock flinches away from his outstretched hand. "Does he know how you-"

Sherlock laughs hollowly at that. "How could he not? Everyone knows. _You_ know, apparently."

The anger is gone and now Lestrade's eyes are filled with something that looks suspiciously like pity. It's a thousand times worse.

With a disdainful sneer, Sherlock shoves him out of the way and storms off.

He feels empty.

***

John and Mary decide on a trip to Paris for their two-year-anniversary.

 _Shezza_ spends the first week of it swallowed into London's underbelly, off the radar, his whereabouts unknown even to the British Government.

_Sherlock_ spends the second week of it curled up and shivering on Lestrade's sofa while the drugs wreak havoc on his exhausted body and fragile mind.

"This is no way to live your life," Lestrade sighs and hands over the cigarette.

Sherlock brings it to his lips with trembling fingers. "Spare me the speech," he says, dragging a mouthful of burning smoke into his aching lungs.

Lestrade sighs from his position on the floor. He's leaning back against the sofa, his head pillowed against the detective's belly. Sherlock absently plays with his greying hair and keeps smoking. It's not the first time they're doing this. Going by the current state of things, Sherlock muses, it also won't be the last.

"I'm not talking about the drugs," says Lestrade, craning his neck to see Sherlock's face. "Well, _obviously_ I don't like the drugs, but you knew that already."

Sherlock looks back at him with a carefully blank expression.

"This thing with John, whatever it is, it's tearing you apart."

Silence.

"You love him. More than anything, more than yourself. He's breaking you into a million tiny pieces and you let him because you think it's better than the alternative of not having him at all. And you'll keep letting him do it until the only thing that's left of you is an empty shell of a great man who loved so much it destroyed him."

Lestrade is painfully insightful sometimes.

"I thought smoking in the sitting room wasn't allowed?" Sherlock distracts and hands back their shared smoke.

"No wife to nag me about it anymore, is there?"

Sherlock slumps to the floor and buries his face in Lestrade's neck. He cries and clings and Lestrade holds him through it, stroking his back and whispering reassurances Sherlock can't bring himself to believe.

***

"You look terrible," John remarks in way of greeting, concerned eyes sweeping over the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock lies and John nods and moves to the kitchen to make tea.

He lets it slide. He wouldn't have let it slide _before_.

***

"John," Sherlock gasps, hands scrambling to find purchase against the tiled wall. He presses back into the tight grip John has of his hips, and moans.

"Quiet," John pants and thrusts, burying himself deeper still.

Mary has been gone for eight days.

 _'I just need some time to think, John, to breathe,'_ she'd said.

One of John's hands has found its way into Sherlock's hair and he pulls, sending sharp sparks of pain searing through the detective's body. Sherlock arches his back and cries out, the sound obscenely loud in the otherwise empty pub bathroom.

"Sherlock!" John's tone is warning as he pulls out and turns the other man around. He frowns and thinks for a moment, then taps Sherlock's upper thigh. "Legs," he orders huskily.

Sherlock hurries to comply and wraps his legs around John's waist, only the wall at his back and John's hands on his hips supporting him now. His breath hitches when John pushes back in, but John's mouth is covering his before the next moan can work its way outside.

 _'Please don't do this, not again,'_ John had pleaded as he watched his wife walk out on him and their daughter.

"God, _Sherlock_ ," John grunts and cups Sherlock's cheek with one hand. "I wish things were different- _argh!_ "

His wedding ring is cold against Sherlock's jaw and his release all the more burning inside him.

There are tears sticking to Sherlock's eyelashes but he's fairly confident John will mistake them for droplets of sweat.

***

The case is mind-bogglingly dull. Sherlock's never cared much for embezzlement and other bureaucratic nonsense, but he doesn't have anything else on at the moment and Mycroft was insistent.

He's also possibly in desperate need of a distraction, of something to keep his mind from torturing him with the news of yet another happy reunion and the reminder of what a buggered up mess his life has become as of late.

"Any progress?" Mycroft queries as he saunters into the study, no jacket, open waistcoat and turned up sleeves; his very own pathetic version of casual.

Sherlock makes a vague grunting sound in response

Mycroft perches on the edge of the desk, eyes roaming over the disarray of papers. Sherlock doesn't react at all and he sighs. "This isn't healthy."

"You gave me the job," Sherlock sniffs absently, not bothering to look up. "You know my methods, so stop pestering me about tedious things such as food and sleep and let me work in peace. Also, your enormous rear is blocking the light."

"Sherlock," Mycroft says gravely and hooks a finger under his brother's chin, forcing the detective to meet his eyes. "I worry about you. More than usual, I mean," he quickly adds with a sigh and an eye-roll when Sherlock grimaces and opens his mouth to protest. "You are my brother and I love you dearly, which is why it pains me to see you subjecting yourself to this abusive sort of relationship with Doctor-"

"What are you on about?" Sherlock demands angrily, also a bit shocked, and jerks his head away.

Mycroft tilts his own head and cocks an eyebrow, somehow managing to make the movement seem concerned, scolding and fond all at the same time.

Sherlock narrows suspicious eyes at him. "John has never hurt me," he says carefully.

"We both know _that_ is not quite true," the politician tuts. "He may not have caused you any physical harm, but the way he is taking advantage of your feelings towards him is nothing short of cruel."

Sherlock gapes. Mycroft senses his chance and plunges on.

"Do you not see what this _arrangement_ is doing to you, Sherlock? How having him for short periods of time and then losing him all over again afterwards drains you? How his cold-hearted selfishness-"

"No- _o!_ " Sherlock means for it to come out threatening, but his voice cracks embarrassingly.

Mycroft is relentless. "Don't you think it heartless of him to use you when he's in need and then throw you away like an old, boring toy? Something stowed away and gathering dust, only ever taken out of its box when nothing else is available?"

"John isn't a bad person," Sherlock says quietly, staring down at his hands. Because even with all the evidence pointing at the opposite, he can't bring himself to believe that John Watson is anything but _good_. Anything but _perfect_.

"Mm, yes," Mycroft hums thoughtfully. "He isn't, is he?"

Sherlock glares at his brother. "What do you mean?"

"You are utterly blind when it comes to matters of the heart, brother dear," Mycroft smiles smugly and Sherlock briefly thinks about stabbing him with his own pretentious gold letter opener. "Doctor Watson doesn't know."

"That's ludicrous!"

"Ah, so what you are saying is that John Watson is fully aware of your affection for him and therefore deliberately uses those feelings to manipulate you into sexual intercourse, yet you persist that he is, as you say, _a good person_? That does sound a tad bit contradictory to me, I must admit."

He's backed into a corner and Mycroft's done it deliberately, Sherlock startles to realise. He doesn't particularly care for the sensation of being trapped.

How can John not know? _Everyone_ seems to know these days. Hasn't he made himself perfectly clear by stepping back, by giving John the wedding he's always wanted - although that murder attempt hadn't been planned, by offering Mary a way out and forgiving her because she is John's _wife_ and John _loves_ her and how could Sherlock ever take someone John loves so much away from him when he _knows_ how incredibly much that hurts?

Surely John recognised all this for what it meant? Could see the sentiment, the love behind it?

_'God, Sherlock. I wish things were different.'_

Sherlock shakes himself and casts his eyes back down to the task at hand. "It doesn't matter."

Mycroft heaves a pained, long-suffering sigh. "Sherlock-"

"John loves Mary. They have a child together, they are a family. Whether he does or doesn't know about me is of no consequence. He chose her, as is his right to do."

"And you think his choice would be the same if he was presented with all the facts?"

"John is nothing if not loyal," Sherlock shrugs, affecting nonchalance.

"Dear lord," Mycroft groans and throws his hands in the air as he gets up. "This is what I risked my position and reputation for? This is why I resurrected a master criminal and brought you back from exile? For you to simply give up?"

"Apparently."

***

Sherlock is conflicted and angry and confused beyond belief. He accepts the case Mycroft offers him a week later without a second thought.

Stuttgart is cold and rainy, much like England. Sherlock is miserable and wishes himself back in 221B.

Rabat, in turn, is much too hot. The people are loud and the air is hot and the overall atmosphere oppressive.

Sherlock meets Victor in New York and that's surprisingly pleasant. They have dinner together to catch up and get delightfully tipsy. When Victor hugs him goodbye and kisses his cheek and promises to keep in touch, Sherlock feels oddly treasured.

The time spent in Zurich is more of a holiday than an actual chase. Sherlock visits museums and exhibitions, strolls through the old part of town and accidentally solves a blackmailing case by overhearing two people talk in a restaurant.

He goes to the ballet in Prague and gets thrown in jail in Saint Petersburg for, as Mycroft later puts it, _'being an insensitive prick and harassing a bishop by dismembering every aspect of his belief'_. Sherlock acts shameful and mumbles an insincere apology but is secretly pleased and hasn't felt so alive in years.

And when he arrives in Tokyo, Sherlock realises he hasn't thought of John in nearly a month.

He abandons everything and catches the next flight back to London.

***

"I missed you," John whispers against Sherlock's lips as he rocks their hips together. He tightens the one arm he has wrapped around the detective's shoulders and caresses his cheek with his free hand.

Sherlock closes his eyes. If he doesn't see he can pretend it's more than what it is. More than physical attraction, more than anger turned into lust, more than the outlet John seeks and finds in his willingness.

John alters his angle, hitting Sherlock's prostate whit every other delicious thrust.

 _"John,"_ Sherlock whines and rubs his feet along the doctor's calves, arching up and pushing back, urging him to go faster.

But John keeps the pace slow, he's tender and gentle and peppers Sherlock's whole face with sweet little kisses and teasing nips.

It's maddening. It's torture, because this way, Sherlock doesn't have to pretend, he almost believes.

John spills into him with a cry muffled against Sherlock's shoulder. He moves off and Sherlock chokes out a relieved breath until he feels a hot mouth around him, swallowing him down.

He wants to protest, wants to push John away and flee. Run and hide.

Instead he moans and John hums around him, sending sweet vibrations through his whole body, making his fingers tingle and his toes curl.

It's always been about John before. It has to keep being about John.

"John," the detective croaks pitifully, helplessly, and shivers.

John takes this as a sign to renew his efforts and nudges two fingers back inside Sherlock. Curse the man for being a doctor, Sherlock thinks when John immediately finds his prostate and caresses it with light, teasing strokes. The mouth around him slides down even further, causing Sherlock to mewl and whine, torn between pleasure and something else he can't name.

Sherlock shouts John's name when he comes and buries himself deep in the other man's mouth.

John smiles, waiting patiently before he carefully releases Sherlock and crawls up his body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake until he's high enough to smear their mouths together with a content little hum.

He doesn't leave and Sherlock starts to panic. John _always_ leaves, he _never_ stays.

Sherlock needs John to leave, desperately so. There are tears he needs to spill and words he needs to cry out and feelings he needs to push back down and he can't do that if John doesn't leave.

But John settles in, pulls Sherlock close and wraps strong arms around him, the detective's head tucked comfortably under his chin. "Tell me about your time away," he murmurs, carding gentle fingers through Sherlock's messy hair and rubbing lazy circles across his skin with his free hand.

And so Sherlock does. He talks and he clings and he pretends until John is soundly asleep and he can let himself fall.

***

Sherlock is bent over his microscope when John enters the kitchen the next morning, carefully avoiding the doctor's eyes.

"Morning," John yawns and flicks on the kettle. He comes to stand behind Sherlock and bends down, nosing behind his ear and squeezing his shoulders.

Sherlock gives a startled yelp, hurls himself away and almost falls off his chair in the process. "What are you doing?" he demands, voice coming out shakier than he would have liked.

John's earlier smile falters, then vanishes completely. "Nothing," he murmurs and turns, heading back to the bedroom. "Nothing at all."

The kettle beeps just as the front door slams shut.

***

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you about Mary," John says over dinner one night.

"No," Sherlock shakes his head. "It's fine. I know," he says and shifts Minna in his lap, wiping some of Angelo's special tomato-basil sauce away from the corner of her mouth.

John smiles at them and his expression shifts from tension to surprise and, briefly, hurt before settling on relief.

Sherlock knows how John chose. How he'll always choose. He holds his goddaughter a little tighter.

***

"Look!" Minna crows excitedly, pointing at the ducklings emerging from under their mother's protective wing. "Sherlock, look!"

"Yes, I see them," Sherlock says indulgingly, sitting on his heels next to the girl, and brings up his cupped hands holding the breadcrumbs.

Minna grabs a small fistful and throws it in the general direction of the pond. Most of them land in her hood and on her shoes, but she doesn't seem bothered and happily babbles on, pointing at this and that while Sherlock makes acknowledging noises and hums seriously.

"Oh, she's darling!"

Sherlock risks a glance at John from the corner of his eye. He's still sitting on the bench where they left him, his attention now fixed on the pretty brunette next to him.

She's married, unhappily so, has no children of her own although she always wanted them. Her husband didn't. She rakes and appreciative glance over John's face and smiles, flirtatiously batting her eyes at him.

The ever-present ball of jealousy in Sherlock's stomach roars and he quickly averts his gaze.

"Absolutely precious. How old is she, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Not at all, no." The smile is audible in John's voice and Sherlock wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Sherlock tunes them out, launching into a speech about the various properties of duck feathers and down fluff instead. Minna listens with rapt attention, mouth parted slightly and blonde curls bobbing as she nods along. Her eyes go wide when he starts explaining an experiment involving a live swan and Sherlock's voice cuts off abruptly, his throat dry as sand all of a sudden.

She still has John's eyes. Blue and sparkling and stunningly beautiful.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock's head whips around. John is standing behind them, staring down at the two of them and smiling fondly. "Come on, let's get something to warm us up. I'm freezing," he says and holds out his hand to the girl.

Minna grabs it and offers her other hand to Sherlock who stares at it dumbly for a moment before taking it.

She looks immensely pleased and Sherlock thinks that he would be, too, if he were allowed to do this with John.

***

"You're an irresponsible idiot!"

Sherlock looks down at his shredded hand and, yes, he has to give him that. He hisses at the paramedic trying to wrap gauze around his fingers and shoots her a withering glare.

"Oh no," John snaps, pinning him with an angry glare of his own. "You will sit there and let that woman do her job and be very quiet and very nice and say thank you when she's finished."

Sherlock bristles. He does it quietly, though. But he does pointedly not thank the paramedic. He has _some_ self-respect left, after all.

Once the woman leaves, John crouches down in front of where he's still sitting in the back of the ambulance and takes his hands, inspecting the bandages. "You have to be more careful," he sighs, brushing his thumbs over Sherlock's wrists.

Sherlock attempts to look earnest, knowing he's probably failing miserably. "I will."

"Liar," John chuckles and shakes his head.

"You're not wearing your ring," Sherlock says suddenly, frowning at the empty space on the doctor's finger.

John's face does something funny Sherlock can't decipher. "Haven't been for a while now," he mumbles, something resigned in his voice, and gazes down at nothing in particular.

"Ah." Sherlock is prepared for this, has done it so many times before it almost feels sincere as he does it now. "It will be fine," he says and awkwardly pats John's shoulder in what, according to an internet forum he found, is a gesture of comfort.

John doesn't look comforted. He looks sad.

***

Minna calls him Papa.

Sherlock freezes mid-sentence and stays stock still and unblinking for a full minute.

Then he runs out of the house, ignoring John's calls and the girl's confused wails. He makes it to the next corner before everything becomes too much and he doubles over, dry-heaving with one hand braced against a lamppost.

He coughs until he cries and cries until he's dizzy.

***

Mycroft insists that he come along to the estate to celebrate Mummy's seventy-fifth birthday.

Sherlock insists that it'll be tedious and boring and overrun with tedious and boring people. He's still insisting on the drive out to Sussex and curls up into a sulking ball of petulance when Mycroft keeps ignoring him.

"How is the _work_ going, dear?" asks Aunt Gladys in her usual condescending, high-pitched voice. "Are you still playing detective?"

"Have you found a lovely woman yet?" wonders Uncle Cyrus and Cousin Octavia laughs, pats his hand and says, "As if, Uncle, as if."

"You aren't taking those dreadful drugs anymore, are you?" wonders father's old friend Thaddeus, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Is that ratty doctor still living with you?" sniffs Mummy and Sherlock throws his plate against the wall, stunning everyone at the table into silence, and leaves the dining hall without another word before anyone has the chance to demand an apology.

Mycroft knocks on his bedroom door after the other guests have left, ignores the clipped "Go away!" and lets himself in. He kicks off his shoes and sits down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, holding out the mug with the bees he got his little brother for his fourth birthday.

Sherlock sneers at him. "I'm not a child, Mycroft. You can't pacify me with milk and honey."

"It's scotch," Mycroft says as he settles down next to the other man. He brings his own mug up in a mock salute and takes a big sip.

"You should have brought the whole bottle," Sherlock remarks, draining his drink in one go.

Mycroft holds up the bottle and they both laugh, tipping their heads back against the wall.

"I shouldn't have made you come here," Mycroft admits with a sigh and turns enough to look at his brother. "They're all vicious and obnoxious and I really don't know why I even bother anymore."

"It's all right," Sherlock shrugs, rubbing at his forehead. "One of us has to be the good son."

"And you think that's me?" Mycroft snorts and refills their mugs.

"Well, it most certainly isn't _me_ ," Sherlock says, appalled.

"True."

"Shut up."

***

"I'm in love with John," slurs Sherlock and rubs his tear-streaked cheek against his brother's chest, making a disapproving noise at the shirt buttons.

The now empty bottle hits the carpeted floor with a quiet thump.

"I know," Mycroft says and smiles to himself when it comes out halfway comprehensible. He pets Sherlock's hair and Sherlock hums in response.

"I don't know what to do," Sherlock sniffles and moves higher, burying his face in Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft holds him close and kisses the top of his head.

Sherlock trembles quietly until he falls asleep.

***

Getting shot again isn't any less painful than it was the first time around.

"Sherlock? Oh god, _Sherlock!_ " John is running towards him, already pulling at Sherlock's shirt before his knees fully hit the ground. "Sherlock, can you hear me? _Sherlock!_ "

The sun is shining down at them. Sherlock blinks at it. Why is it always dark when someone gets shot in a movie?

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," John mutters frantically. He slips out of his jacket and presses it against the bleeding man's abdomen.

Sherlock likes that particular jacket. It nicely accentuates John's shoulders.

"Sherlock, listen to me. Listen to my voice. Can you do that for me?" John asks, lifting the detective's head into his lap.

John is an idiot, Sherlock thinks. Listening is a very easy task. Unless one is deaf or otherwise impaired. Sherlock doesn't think he's deaf. He'll check later.

"The ambulance is going to be here any minute now, Sherlock. It's going to be fine, you're going to be fine."

Something wet hits Sherlock's face. He wrinkles his nose.

"Sorry," John chuckles weakly and scrubs at his eyes. "Sentiment, you know. Some people can't help it if their friends get shot in the fucking stomach."

John is crying. Sherlock doesn't like it when John cries. It's exhausting, but he manages to lift his hand up to John's cheek, patting it lightly.

"Yeah, that's right. You're going to be fine. I've got you," John says and takes Sherlock's hand to press a kiss to it. "I've got you, you're going to be fine."

Sherlock always knows when John is lying. John is lying right now. "Jo-"

"No, shush, it's all right," John interrupts him, brushing some stubborn curls away from his forehead. "Shush, Sherlock, it's fine."

"No," Sherlock croaks, because he needs to tell John something important. It's really important. Why hasn't he told John before? "John-"

The sirens cut him off and that's just rude. Sherlock scowls.

John's grip on him tightens. "They're coming. You're going to be fine, Sherlock."

"I love you," blurts Sherlock and the world stops turning.

***

The first thing Sherlock notices when he opens his eyes is the blinding brightness. He moans feebly and quickly closes them again.

His head is pounding, he feels viciously nauseas and is dimly aware of a dull, throbbing pain somewhere near his navel.

The worst of all, however, is the complete disorientation.

He frowns and tries to remember what led to his current situation. Whatever that situation might be, he isn't quite sure yet.

Lestrade's office, he remembers. Something about a case? That would be the logical conclusion, but his mind draws a blank. Sherlock gives a frustrated huff and shifts, causing a white hot bold of pain to shoot through his lower body and steal his breath away.

Moving; not good.

There's a sound, the rustling of clothing, coming from somewhere near him. With a tremendous effort, Sherlock manages to crack open one eye. He has to blink several times before his surroundings stop being blurry and start getting into focus.

John. Slouched in a plastic chair and fast asleep.

Taking a deep breath, which hurts, Sherlock cranes his neck to look around.

White. Everything's white. So much white.

Hospital, his mind provides helpfully. It doesn't tell him _why_ he's in a hospital, though, which is mildly annoying.

Something unfamiliar is in his usual line of vision and Sherlock goes almost cross-eyed before he recognises it as an oxygen mask. He suddenly feels constricted, overwhelmed, needs to get if off and away. His fingers twitch, but there's a weight pinning his hand to the bed.

He flexes his fingers and John jolts awake, staring first down at their joint hands, then up at Sherlock's face. Their eyes meet and Sherlock goes cold all over.

_'I love you.'_

"Sherlock, Christ," John slides closer. He cups Sherlock's face, brushes a thumb over his cheek and kisses his head.

Sherlock struggles, tries to wriggle free, panic settling somewhere deep within his chest.

_'I love you.'_

"Hey, Sherlock, calm down. Easy there," John whispers and smoothes his hand over the detective's chest. "You're okay. I'm right here, everything is going to be fine," he promises, catching Sherlock's flailing arms and gently placing them back down on the bed.

Sherlock realises he's crying. He can't stop. He stops pushing and starts tugging instead, wanting John closer. He loosely curls his fingers into the doctor's jumper.

_'I love you.'_

"Hi," John beams at him once he's calmer. He gets up and perches on the edge of the mattress, bending down to press their foreheads together. "There you are. Welcome back."

Sherlock grunts and after a moment John gets it and carefully lifts the mask off his face.

 _"John,"_ Sherlock wheezes, unable to say more. He's panting.

"It's fine, don't talk," John shushes him and squeezes their still clasped hands.

"Don't go," Sherlock chokes out shakily. He succeeds in bringing a hand up to the back of John's neck and clings to him.

 _'Don't go,'_ he wants to say. _'Please don't go. Stay. Stay with me. Don't go back to her. I love you. Please. Don't go, please.'_

All that comes out is a teary "Please!" and a strangled sob.

Unconsciousness takes him again while John is wiping salty water from his cheeks and whispering calming nothings.

Sherlock lets himself drift.

***

The doctor is talking and Sherlock is staring out of the window, resolutely ignoring him.

Mycroft scowls at him from the corner of the room.

Sherlock doesn't know where John is.

"Please pay attention, Sherlock," Mycroft sighs.

Gastrointestinal perforation. Blood loss. Emergency surgical intervention. Closure of perforation with extreme difficulty. Intravenous fluids. Antibiotics. Bowel rest.

Extremely lucky.

Sherlock snorts at the last one and the tube in his nose shifts painfully. He pokes at it.

"Stop that," Mycroft scolds and Sherlock closes his eyes to sulk.

***

Mrs Hudson comes to see him.

She shouts at him for being so reckless and mothers him until he snaps at her. She makes him apologise and kisses his cheek and tells him they'll have everything ready for when he's allowed to come home.

"They? Ready?" Sherlock asks, cursing the damn drugs for making him slow and stupid.

Mrs Hudson claps her hands together and smiles. "Oh Sherlock, it will be wonderful! We are all so happy for you. It was about time, don't you think, dear?"

Sherlock tells her she doesn't make any sense and goes back to sleep.

***

Lestrade brings cases.

He might just be a saint, Sherlock thinks.

"How are you holding up?" Lestrade wants to know, making himself comfortable with a cup of coffee in hand and his feet propped up on the bed.

"Where's John?" Sherlock counters petulantly.

Lestrade shrugs and grins mischievously and Sherlock throws a manila folder at his head.

Lestrade is most definitely _not_ a saint.

***

Sherlock makes a nurse cry by pointing out her weight gain and ends up being yelled at and sedated after exposing a doctor's illegal gambling ring.

***

The sensation is not unlike being slapped in the face. Sherlock has experience with being slapped in the face.

He opens his eyes to Minna's enormous grin and her small hand on his cheek.

"Be careful, sweetheart," John says as he steps into his line of sight, one hand on his daughter's back to keep her from falling off the bed. "Sherlock is ill and very tired."

Sherlock is pretty sure he's gaping at the two of them. "What are you doing here?"

John rolls his eyes. "You got shot, you tit. Where else would I be?"

"You weren't here the last four days," Sherlock points out grumpily and startles when John takes his hand and lightly kisses his knuckles.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Work and Minna and organising the move. I came back as fast as I could."

"Who's moving?" Sherlock asks, puzzled. He casts a dubious look at his morphine drip.

"Ah," John hums, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a crooked smile. "That depends. On you, actually."

"On me?" Sherlock repeats and arches an imploring eyebrow. Being the clueless party is really not as much fun as being the knowing one.

There is a knock on the door and Sherlock barks out an irritated "Go away!" at the same time as John calls "Come on in."

Mycroft peeks his head inside and throws John a questioning look which John answers with a nod.

Sherlock groans. "Go away," he spits and decides a glare is in order, too.

"You shall have your wish, brother dear," Mycroft drawls mockingly as he walks over to the bed and picks up Minna who hasn't yet learned what a giant _arse_ Mycroft is and smiles at the attention she's receiving. "I am merely here to pick up Miss Watson."

He returns the smile and Sherlock thinks that must be the most disconcerting thing he's ever seen in his entire life, so he says, to John, after Mycroft has left, "You let him take your daughter."

John, still grinning from ear to ear, shrugs one shoulder. "He'll manage. He raised you."

Sherlock pulls a face at that.

"Glad to see you haven't lost your aversion for all things Mycroftian," John jibes and lowers himself to sit on the bed next to Sherlock's hip. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I missed something?" the detective offers. "John, who's moving?"

"What would you say if I told you I'd like to come back to Baker Street? Me and Minna?"

If his hands weren't occupied by IV-drips or clasped in John's, Sherlock would pinch himself because surely this is some absurd, drug-induced dream where Mycroft is human and John just asked to come home and everyone starts sprouting a second head in a minute?

He checks the morphine levels again.

"But what about Mary?"

John's expression turns serious. He frowns a bit. "Sherlock, Mary and I split up."

Sherlock's response is automatic and well practiced. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sure it will work out and-"

John laughs. He laughs and shakes his head and releases Sherlock's hand to run both of his over his face. "You didn't know. You really, _genuinely_ didn't know?" He sounds incredulous. Disbelieving. A bit hysterical, even.

"John-"

"I mean," the older man interrupts, swiping at his eyes. "Mycroft said that you... but _Jesus_ , Sherlock. How could you not have known?"

"John, if you don't tell me what the bloody hell is going-"

John kisses him. He cups Sherlock's jaw and kisses him and Sherlock experiences his usual mind-blankness that always comes with John kissing him which isn't helpful at the moment, so he pulls back.

"Sherlock," John sighs and climbs right into bed next to him, careful not to disturb any wires or needles. He settles with one hand over Sherlock's heart and the other in his curls, their faces so close that the tips of their noses are brushing together.

Sherlock would point out that this isn't very doctorly of John, only he doesn't mind and so he refrains from commenting.

"Sherlock, Mary and I split up a while ago. When you were in Switzerland, I think? I'm not sure and it doesn't really matter. What matters is that she's not coming back. She's gone. Last time Mycroft checked she was in Mexico, I believe."

"Mexico?" Sherlock asks because John says things that are supposed to mean something and make sense but really don't.

"She got a job offer," John explains, his expression grave and his eyes sad as he does so. "From her _old job_. I... I have no idea what exactly she was up to before we met or how she got away from it the first time round or why she thought it would be a good idea to go back or... anything, really. The only thing I know is that she went back without spending a single thought on me or her daughter. I was convenient, I think, and I'd like to believe that she did care about us in some capacity, but we were never what she wanted. And Mary could never be what I needed either."

Sherlock finds that he's suddenly absolutely and desperately livid. "But you chose _her!_ " he yells and tries to sit up, too furious to be lying down, but John shakes his head and gently pushes him back down.

"I chose someone who didn't exist. The Mary I _thought_ I fell in love with was never real. And the person I _knew_ I was in love with was dead, so that wasn't happening and, well, I'm only human, Sherlock."

He laughs bitterly and closes his eyes. Sherlock can feel the tickling swish of eyelashes against his own cheeks and the shuddering breath ghosting across his lips.

"And then you came back and I was happy, even though I knew you didn't want me like that, but it was okay, because I had my best friend back and that was enough. And then everything with Magnussen happened and I would have left right then if it hadn't been for Minna. But I had to try, for her sake, and you helped, you helped Mary and I thought yes, okay, I'll give this another try, this can work. But it didn't work and things were bad and the only good thing was you and so I took everything you gave me and told myself it would be fine. I told myself it was okay that you didn't love me back as long as I had you as a friend and, later on, as some bizarre, halfway casual shag-buddy, because that was better than not having you at all."

It would be highly amusing if it weren't so tragic, Sherlock thinks and pulls John closer, ignoring the pain in his abdomen because bullet wounds are _not bloody important right now._

John lets him, pressing his face into Sherlock's neck and inhaling, breathing him in. "I was relieved when Mary left. It's cowardly, I realise that, but I was so glad when she left. I went to tell you, that one time we were having dinner at Angelo's? You said you knew, but you didn't, did you? That was your general response to everything Mary, to say you know or you're sorry or that it was going to be fine because you were hurting, wasn't it? I wasn't even surprised, I knew that's how you felt and that was good enough for me. I would've been happy to have my daughter and my best friend and go on like that. And then it turns out I've been an idiot and breaking both our hearts again and again, all because I didn't fucking think that you could possibly feel the same for me as I feel for you."

Now Sherlock laughs. Or cries. He isn't sure and it doesn't matter. And he wants to say something, make some grand declaration or at least stumble his way through the mess of his feelings like John did, but in the end all that comes out of his mouth is, "I'm glad someone shot me, then."

***

John comes by every day, which is pretty neat. There is no more cuddling or kissing, though, and Sherlock does a lot of complaining about that. John insists Sherlock needs to rest and heal and Sherlock grumbles under his breath until John sits down with him and strokes his fingers through his hair.

***

Minna is tucked up against his side, sleeping soundly while Sherlock plays with her curls, winding them around his fingers before letting them spring free again.

She puffs out hot little breaths against his chest, one hand curled into his ugly hospital gown as if she's afraid he'd leave if she let go. As if she doesn't know that leaving her is a physical impossibility. As if Sherlock is actually able to walk away from her and John.

He couldn't do it when they weren't his and he definitely can't do it now that they are.

He doesn't _want_ to.

"My darling girl," Sherlock whispers and presses his smiling lips to the crown of her head.

John finds them both asleep when he comes back from getting tea. He stops short in the door, overwhelmed by the tableau in front of him. He quickly snaps a picture.

Sherlock groans and raises his eyebrows at him when he sees John has set it as his phone's wallpaper.

John spots the not so perfectly hidden glee in his eyes, though, so it's all fine.

***

They keep him in hospital for two full weeks. Sherlock has a sneaking suspicion it would have been longer if not for Mycroft's interference, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut while he signs the discharge papers.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks once the doctors and nurses have left and he's alone with his brother, struggling into his socks and refusing any help with what should be a simple task.

Mycroft tilts his head, going for innocent. It's a decidedly bad and unconvincing look on him. "Whatever do you mean?"

Sherlock huffs in annoyed frustration and hurls the socks across the room. He's never appreciated the ability to bend at the waist more than now that he's lost it. Mycroft ignores the dramatics, picks up the discarded items and calmly crouches in front of the bed to put them on the younger man's feet.

"It wasn't my place to interfere."

"Oh, _please!_ " Sherlock exclaims and waves his arms, wincing at the resulting flare of pain. He shoots down Mycroft's concerned question with a stern look before he can even voice it. "Interference is your middle name. Sticking your inappropriately large nose into my personal business is the highlight of your every day. I bet meddling around in my affairs is listed as an independent skill on your CV."

"Naturally. Right after world domination and cricket," Mycroft deadpans, completely unimpressed.

"It's considered bad bedside manner to agitate a gravely ill person, Mycroft. Mummy would be scandalised."

Mycroft sighs, sitting back on his heels to look up at his brother. "Would you have listened, Sherlock? You were convinced that Doctor Watson had actively chosen Miss Morstan over you, that he wouldn't have moved heaven and hell to be with you if he had known about your feelings for him. You never even considered the possibility that he might just love you back because you were busy being your usual melodramatic self."

"So what? You decided to let me be miserable for a couple of months as some kind of punishment?"

Mycroft shakes his head and sighs his long-suffering older sibling sigh. "You needed to hear what you needed to hear and it had to come from John in order for you to believe it. If I had told you about Miss Morstan's relocation you would have accused me of manipulating John's marriage. You would have gone to any lengths necessary to bring her back and reunite them because you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. And John would have gone along with that, he would not have confessed to you the way he did if you hadn't done so first. Very romantic, that, I must say."

Sherlock weakly kicks him in the shoulder. Mycroft merely uses the opportunity to grab Sherlock's foot and start manoeuvring it into a shoe.

"John is so utterly smitten with you that he accepted your judgement of what he wanted and what would be best for him instead of listening to his own heart. He values your opinion above his own and follows your lead without a second thought. The two of you needed to reach these conclusions on your own."

There is a moment of silence while Sherlock mulls this over. Then, "Did you have me shot to prove a point?"

Mycroft gets back up and straightens out the invisible crinkles in his suit. "No. I overestimated your emotional capacities and decided to wait for, as they say, the penny to drop."

Sherlock isn't convinced and lets it show.

"Had I known how long it was going to take you, I would have ordered a hit a year ago. Or possibly even done it myself."

"You are a terrible older brother."

Mycroft smiles sweetly at him. "Aren't I just?"

Sherlock smirks back evilly. "Although I do feel honoured to have tempted you into doing some legwork."

"You are a terrible younger brother."

"Absolutely," Sherlock agrees.

***

Things at Baker Street are uncomfortable and awkward.

John is away at work most days and Minna either stays with her childminder or downstairs at Mrs Hudson's.

In the evenings, John cooks and plays with his daughter before he helps her brush her teeth and brings her up to his old room that's slowly but steadily being transformed into a nursery. He sleeps up there most nights unless he nods off on the sofa.

Sherlock is lonely. The flat feels empty during the day and even worse when there are people in it who do their best to live _around_ him rather than _with_ him.

It's hateful.

***

Standing for prolonged periods of time is still a hassle. Getting in and out of bed takes much longer than Sherlock would like and he hasn't showered since coming home because he can't quite manage it on his own yet.

He's lying flat on his back, on his bed, in his room, on a Saturday afternoon, _alone_.

John isn't at the surgery, he doesn't work weekends anymore since Minna came along. Sherlock can hear him laughing and chatting over tea with Mrs Hudson.

The house is old, their voices carry and they sound pleasantly happy without him. Which won't do at all, Sherlock decides.

The covers are thrown back and with a grunt, Sherlock swings his legs out of bed and puts his feet on the floor. He uses the headboard as support for heaving himself up, then creeps along the walls and out onto the landing.

Slowly, carefully, he takes the first step, wincing at the strain in his abdomen. He clasps the banister and tries again. His muscles ache and protest with every movement, his legs tremble and his palms are sweaty before he's even halfway down the stairs, but it's progress.

 _'Yes,'_ Sherlock thinks with a proud and slightly smug smile, _'this works, I can-'_

His body, however, seems to have other ideas. The last few steps are skipped in favour of falling and he lands with an almighty crash that has him seeing black for a moment.

John's worried shout of _"Sherlock!"_ manages to penetrate the fog and Sherlock blinks open his eyes just in time to see the doctor fall to his knees next to him.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" John demands, his voice thick and bordering on panicky.

Sherlock has to take several deep breaths before the renewed pain in his stomach subsides enough for him to speak. "You were downstairs."

"Having tea with Mrs Hudson, yeah. I told you." John is frowning down at him, tilting Sherlock's head into the light to check his pupils.

"You left," Sherlock snaps accusingly, batting at the other man's assessing hands.

"Yes," John says slowly. "To have tea with Mrs Hudson. Did you hit your head on-"

"My head is perfectly fine!" the detective growls, growing frustrated.

John holds up his hand in placating gesture which only aggravates Sherlock further, so he takes them down again and rubs his face instead. "Sherlock, I don't know what the problem is here, but-"

"You're the problem, John!" Sherlock groans. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back down to the floor, which, in hindsight, probably hadn't been the best idea, going by the dizziness.

" _I_ am the problem?" John's tone is flat now. Cold.

"If you want to leave again, you should just go. There's no point in pretending, John. It's fine. It's all fine."

Nothing's fine, although Sherlock is not going to tell him _that_. He has some dignity left. If John has changed his mind, Sherlock is not going to humiliate himself by begging him to stay or crying over him or some such nonsense. At least not until John is gone and he can do so in private.

Warm hands settle on his cheeks, startling Sherlock into looking up into John's confused face.

"What are you on about?"

"You've obviously changed your mind. About us," Sherlock shrugs. He picks at a loose tread on his dressing gown and tries his best to avoid his friend's eyes. Are they still friends? Are they exes now? No one really stays friends with their exes, do they? Does it even count if you never really started your relationship properly? How do-

"What gave you that idea?" John asks in obvious bewilderment. He's still cradling Sherlock's face, absently brushing his thumbs over the detective's cheekbones.

"You've been avoiding me," Sherlock accuses and automatically leans into the touch. Traitorous transport. "You work all the time and when you're home you pay no attention to me. You cook and you change my bandages because you have a natural caretaker tendency, but other than that you do your best to stay out of my way. Therefore, my conclusion; you've changed your mind."

"That's not-"

"Is there someone else?" Sherlock asks suddenly, eyes-growing wide with what should really have been obvious. John and Mary's marriage had been far from perfect, neither of them had been faithful. Sure, Sherlock amends, the circumstances had been a bit unusual, but the fact that John had cheated still remains. There are statistics about these sort of thing, aren't there? How probable a person who cheated once is to do it again? How high the percentage of people who-

"There is no one else, Sherlock," John interrupts him and he's looking a little hurt.

Sherlock snorts. As if _John_ is the one with the right to look hurt. That's just preposterous. "But with Mary you... with me and... well," he stammers and casts his eyes down again.

John sighs and his fingers press a little harder against Sherlock's cheeks. "Sherlock, things with Mary were... different. Yes, I know," he quickly adds, sensing that the other man's about to protest. "That's the lamest excuse in the book, but true nonetheless. I knew about Mary's infidelity and she knew about mine. We didn't talk about it, just kept playing pretend for... Minna's sake, I guess. Well, at least on my part. Mary didn't really care about what I got up to as long as we kept up appearances and I didn't go around blabbing about her past. It hurt, at first, until I realised that our relationship was long over despite the fact that we were still living together. We barely talked, I'd moved out of the bedroom ages ago. Our marriage was never real, it just took me a moment to catch on." He moves one hand from Sherlock's face to scratch it across his own. "But that's not what I want from a proper relationship. What I want is you and _only_ you. Always have, always will."

"But you're ignoring me," Sherlock insists petulantly, because that much _is_ true.

Silence. It stretches out for so long that Sherlock's about to start his shamed and no doubt painful retreat back upstairs when John laughs. A loud, hearty laugh that makes his eyes go soft and his mouth do that crinkle thing it always does when John thinks Sherlock is being stupid.

"Your mouth is doing that crinkle thing it always does when you think I'm being stupid," Sherlock points out. "And I don't see any cause for amusement," he adds sulkily and folds his arms across his chest, ignoring the reduced effect that has with him still lying on the front hall's floor.

"I was giving you space, you moron," John snorts, surprising Sherlock when he joins him and cuddles up close to him, taking one of the detective's hands in his. "I thought you'd need some time to adjust from _'I am married to my work and don't do relationships'_ to _'my boyfriend and his daughter just moved in with me and the former will ban all chemical experiments from the kitchen'_."

Sherlock nuzzles his face into John's hair to hide his blush and gives an indignant sniff. "Well, I shan't fault you for that. We have clearly established on many occasions in the past that you are a colossal idiot."

"Thank you," John says and Sherlock can feel him grin against his neck before there's a ghosting press of lips.

"Is that what we are?" Sherlock asks and stubbornly ignores the shy, insecure edge to his voice. "Boyfriends?"

"Could be," muses John. "It depends. Tell me what you want. From me. From us. Tell me everything."

Sherlock doesn't even have to think about that one. "I want _you_. I want you to be there when I fall asleep and I want you to still be there when I wake up the next morning. Or night or evening or afternoon if we had a case and went to bed at an unusual hour."

John chuckles fondly but waves a hand for him to go on.

"I want to sit with you and watch telly and eat take out. I want you to make me tea because you know how I like it and make it perfectly. I want to touch you, all the time, and hug you and kiss you and taste you and feel you, every last inch of you. And I want you to want that, too. I want to spend every second of every day with you and Minna because it hurts when you're not here. I don't want to miss you. Ever again."

John moves away and Sherlock has a moment of panic where he thinks he's said too much. But John props himself up on his elbow so he can see Sherlock's face. And he's smiling and looking stupidly happy and tremendously pleased.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says and places a hand over the detective's heart, "will you be my boyfriend?"

"Yes," says Sherlock, but it's swallowed by John's mouth on his. Which is fine.

***

There once was a time when Sherlock Holmes thought books were his favourite thing in the world. They provide entertainment and knowledge en masse and keep the dreaded boredom at bay.

Books lost their position to experimentation, because experimentation does the same things but is so much more _fun_.

Experimenting wasn't exactly replaced when Sherlock discovered drugs, it was just the parameters that shifted and changed.

But Sherlock got clean and, eventually, stayed it. And for a very long time all that mattered to him was the Work. It was challenging, intriguing, fascinating, thrilling, utterly brilliant and at least a thousand things more.

Looking back now, Sherlock realises how inconsequential all this is in the grand scheme of things. He's been living without the drugs for nearly a decade, only the occasional craving throwing him slightly off course. He never gives in, though. Books and experiments have become a hobby, something to pass the time between cases. And the cases, while still a major part of Sherlock's life, are just... _work_. Without the capital.

"Morning," John yawns and rolls over, plastering himself against Sherlock's side and rubbing slow, lazy circles over the detective's hip. He hums contentedly and noses into Sherlock's neck, seemingly intent to go back to sleep.

"You are my favourite thing in the world," Sherlock whispers softly as he watches the early morning sunlight dance across the room and their tangled forms.

John hugs him a bit tighter. "I love you, too."

John and Sherlock.

Sherlock and John.

_Perfect._

Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, go and check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works).


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